


things i could not help

by Reign_of_Glory



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Codenames, Death, Fluff, Gen, Honestly it's not sad, I'm not sure how to word that, Implied Manslaughter, Not heavily focused on though, Serial Killers, Supportive Queens, Vague in the beginning but not vague towards the end, a bit - Freeform, but not really?, implied found family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:53:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reign_of_Glory/pseuds/Reign_of_Glory
Summary: In 1880s London, the undocumented first of a series of murders occurs - and the first to notice are the queens, who hope they made the right choice in what to do.And, of course, they comfort each other, because what else would they do when one of them is feeling down?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	things i could not help

**Author's Note:**

> Hey - thanks for reading this little drabble of an idea I've had! I may turn this into a series, but it was just a small idea I needed to write out. I hope you're having a lovely day!

**1887.**

London is crowded at night with busy men finding their ways through even busier streets. After all, nothing about tonight is different than usual. Nothing at all.

A hooded figure, far smaller than the men with their large top hats, darts around these men, cloak pulled around them as they duck through a doorway. “Sir!” they call, straining their voice so someone might hear. “Sir!”

A broad-shouldered man, easily recognisable to most of the city’s inhabitants, shoulders past them. With a grunt, they dust off their arm, acting far more wounded than they likely are before they continue their journey, which they seem to consider _absolute drudgery._

Sighing, they gesture towards a taller person who has been following them. “Mr Evans!” Again: “Mr Evans! I found such a dreadful sight…”

The alleged Mr Evans rolls his eyes, stepping towards his counterpart with annoyance. “What could possibly be so dreadful as to draw me away from the pub?” he asks. His words are clear and articulated. He is clearly from the richer parts of town, and he has not had much to drink tonight.

The cloaked figure steps aside, gesturing nervously at the body beside them. They cough slightly in an attempt to clear their throat, and their lips draw down as they glower. “This,” they say firmly. “A dead body, here in the streets!”

Biting back what appears to be a chuckle, Mr Evans slips his hands in his coat pockets. “Why not call for the doctor?” he asks, condescending ice dripping from his words.

His much smaller acquaintance wrinkles their nose, a small shape which is barely visible underneath the shadows of their hood and the shadows of the night. “You know how difficult it can be to make ends meet,” they say haughtily, crossing their arms over their chest. Slightly tarnished buttons gleam in the streetlight from the cuffs of their sleeves. 

Mr Evans tilts his head, his expression entirely mocking the person before him although it might not seem so to an onlooker. “And do you know who this person is? Her name? Identification of any sort?” He asks, already knowing the answer the person is supposed to say. This is rehearsed. Any onlooker would be able to tell by the way Evans holds his shoulders. That much shows he is attempting to recall his lines.

“Of course not,” says the other person, “I have no reason to ask, and she is dead. Do you think I can raise the dead?”

Evans’ expression hardens. “Now is not the time to joke,” he chastises, “call for Dr Johnson. I’ll wait here.” 

When his friend doesn’t leave immediately, instead choosing to stare thoughtfully down at the body, he snaps his fingers. _“Go,”_ he hisses through his teeth.

~*~

The figure stumbles through the streets, swearing when their foot catches on a stray stone in the road or when they nearly trip over their slightly-too-big cloak before arriving in front of a small door only a few streets from the alley. They brush a stray lock of hair out of their face before knocking, almost anxiously, and waiting for the doctor to answer the door.

When Johnson does, his hair is disarrayed, and he hurriedly pulls on a cap. “What?” he demands, his voice rough from sleep.

Ah, yes - it’s half three in the morning. What everyone is doing outside? That’s classified information.

The cloaked figure chuckles, a sound that most certainly should not be uttered within a few streets of an assumed murder victim, and they step away from the door, holding out their hand to gesture back the way they came. A street light flickers. 

“You should probably follow me.”

~*~

Follow he did, and when he was shown the body, he let out a small gasp and immediately began to examine it. 

Evans and his companion shared a glance, Evans giving a deep chuckle and his smaller companion giggling at the doctor’s excitement. “Do you think he knows what he’s doing?” the smaller of the two asks, their breath fogging up the air. “Carrot? Do you?”

Evans rolls his eyes at the nickname. He understands why it’s needed - a doctor needn’t know who he is, after all. His name is not a good one, at least not to most people. “Sure, Fudge. He’s a doctor, after all.”

The figure, now labelled as _Fudge_ , sighs. “I suppose _that’s_ a good thing. Surgeon doesn’t know sh- anything,” they whisper back.

Evans laughs. “Careful there, Fudge,” he says warmly. “You can ne-”

Dr Johnson stands, his eyes wide and glasses askew. “This seems to be a weird case. The first incisions… they’re almost like what I might do…”

Evans and Fudge tune him out, both whispering jokes to each other before Johnson clears his throat. “You should go home before someone paints you as a suspect,” he says to Evans. “And young lady,” he says to Fudge, who’s gaze snaps into focus from under her hood, “I recommend you tell no one about what you’ve seen.”

Fudge nods curtly, linking her fingers with Evans’ as the two leave. She leans into him, allowing a side-hug that would be scandalous if anyone cared to notice, and they make their way towards the flat. Some things, only friends understand, and that’s okay.

Evans opens the door, and five sets of worried eyes greet them as he ushers Fudge inside. “Breathe,” he tells her, “and we can talk about everything tomorrow. Fill them in.”

He shuts the door behind her, and she slips out of the hood to reveal men’s clothing - only one of the six women in the room wears any sort of skirts that would be fit to go out in. “All right,” she says, hanging her coat on the coat rack, “I-”

“Anne?” interrupts the youngest, still blinking sleep out of her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Fudge - ah, right, Anne. Forgive me, dear reader, I am just as confused as you are - shakes her head wearily. “It’s not your fault, love,” she says, her voice shaky. “It’s really not.”

Anna grabs the fabric of her skirts in her hand as she rises slowly from her chair, keeping a steady gaze on Katherine, who pulls at the rug on the ground anxiously. “What happened, Anne?” she asks, placing a hand on her friend’s.

“She’s dead.”

Who? Again, classified information.

The woman to the left of everyone stands, inhaling sharply. “Anne, I thought you-”

“She was dead when I got there,” Anne admits. “There was nothing I could do other than call for Dr Johnson, and even before then… Catalina, I’m so sorry.”

Myriad emotions flutter across Catalina’s face, ranging from anger to guilt, and to shame until her expression finally forms into one of grief. “I… Bessie? Dead?”

Katherine lets out a whimper. Anne lowers her gaze. Anna squeezes Anne’s hand, worrying at her lower lip. The two women who are thus unnamed exchange a worried glance as Catalina places a hand on her chest. “I…” Her voice trails off. 

“Stop blaming yourself,” Anne says quietly. “There’s not much you could h-”

“Implying there is something I could have done.”

“We could have just let her keep doing what she was doing even though she didn’t want to and _asked_ us for the surg-”

“Hush.”

Anne obeys, leaning into Anna as she closes her eyes with a shuddering breath. 

“Lina, it’ll be okay, I promise,” whispers one of the women, pulling her nightclothes closer to avoid the draft.

“Catherine, not only did I hurt Elizabeth, but I also put us all in trouble.”

“I can cover this up,” Cathy promises, “and we can atone.”

Silence fills the small room for a moment, and if anything, it’s far better than the previous cries and choked-back whimpers. Cracking a tiny, hopeful smile, Catalina shrugs. “I suppose we can try,” she murmurs.

(She’ll still mourn. I know her well enough to deduce that much. But for now, she knows she has to push forward, and the knowledge that those in her little posse still love her is enough to help her keep going).

“We will,” Cathy assures her.

“I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to poke me here: [@theleastrelevantkatherine](https://theleastrelevantkatherine.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and have a lovely rest of your day <3


End file.
